About this item
Sixteen-year-old Sami hasn't seen her mother in ten years and neither has anyone else. The police suspect Sami's father had something to do with her mom's disappearance, but Sami's never believed that. Her mother chose to abandon her and start a new life. It's that simple.But now, evidence has emerged about another missing woman who used to be involved with Sami's dad. Coincidence or evidence that the cops have been right all along?As Sami investigates, she's forced to question everything she thought she knew about the dad who's always been there for her and the mother who supposedly abandoned her. And if her dad didn't kill her mother, what did happen?
About the Author
The story begins when I'm seven years old, living in a haunted house. I don't sleep. I'm afraid, and I'm seven. Would YOU risk falling asleep in a haunted house? One thing I know I shouldn't do is wake Mom. The woman's exhausted all the time; she needs sleep. Besides, if I tell her I'm being haunted--the whispering never stops, and it's escalating to yanking on my hair, pulling at my toes--she probably won't believe me. "Chalk it up to her wild imagination," she'll mumble over the phone to my father, who is somewhat of an apparition himself. My brother, who is about four, walks the hallways at night in a daze. Sleepwalking. Sometimes, if I drift off, I wake up to find him staring down at me with his big, blue eyes. It's another reason I don't sleep. He's cute, but creepy. I wonder if the entities in the house, those we can't see, influence him to rise out of bed every night. My sister sprawls on the twin bed on the other side of the room. The spirits don't bother her. I wish they would, and not just because she's somewhat of a nine-year-old tyrant, but because if she experiences it, she'll believe me. She's a good person to have on your side, if you know what I mean. Tonight, I've already walked my brother back to his room, and I'm trembling beneath the covers, when I hear it: "Psst! Sasha! Go into the closet! Go into the closet!" They're snickering at me, tickling my toes. It's nearly three a.m. I'm tired! I just want it to stop! I have much to do in second grade tomorrow. Like alphabetizing words that weren't challenging a year ago.So I do the unthinkable: Walk into the closet. Sit on the floor. Wait for something to happen. NOTHING happens. But at least they've stopped talking! When I look up, I see a notebook and a pencil waiting for me on a shelf. I take it down and start to write. I haven't stopped since.These days, I'm drawn to survival instinct and suspense, so that's what I write. I collect tap shoes, paint samples, and mega ideas. I live where my stories unfold, in the suburbs of Chicago. My days are filled with my amazing daughters, our crazy pups, and my incredible guy. And those spirits still impel me to write in the dead of night, but we have an understanding now. They're not allowed to tickle my toes.OBLIVION, Egmont USA: May 27, 2014
